Heaven Tastes Like Peaches

Are these really gambling debts? Probably not of Sławoj. And not Sławek's. The first was rather too old, the second was far too young. Could these be his father's obligations? Sławek was an orphan, but was he full? Konrad was tempted to ask about it, but he felt that it would not only be rude, but would also hurt his friend more.

People take loans for various reasons and for various reasons they are unable to pay them back. It is not fair that their plight gets used by bastards like his father.

"I have seen your orchard," said Skalski, wanting to completely change the subject and forget Domejczuk's mind from a moment ago. "There are many different fruit trees in it. Do you eat it all yourself?"

"No. Some of these trees were planted by my great-grandfather. Grandma used to make apple marmalade, plum jam, plums and cherries compotes. I can only cook compote. Grandfather gave fruit to the ladies from the neighborhood, and in return he received some of their preserves."

Homemade, country preserves - Konrad wondered if they taste the same as those bought in supermarkets. Of course not, he admonished himself. When he tried his homemade orange jam in Greece, he was completely different from the one from the big processing plants. Less aromatic, because without any artificial additives, yet more intense in taste and truly sun-scented.

When he traveled, he did not pay attention to details such as the lives of the people there. He looked at monuments, visited museums, lounged on the beach or dived in the crystal clear bay between the colorful corals. He ate what the waiter brought him without paying much attention to where the food came from. But he remembered that jam.

He was thirteen years old and he was walking with his mother through the seaside market. It smelled like salt water and raw fish. An old Greek woman dressed in black was sitting at the very edge of the square. She was selling jars with a thick, orange-salty substance. The mother stopped by her with a smile, and for a while there were conversations conducted with the use of several languages ​​and broad gestures. Finally, the mother left the woman a banknote and took from her a jar, the contents of which they ate for lunch, spreading it on the local, soft bread with a crispy crust.

"I would eat such homemade jam" said Konrad, still immersed in pleasant memories from a few years ago.

"I'm sorry, the supplies have already run out" said Slawek and apparently he was really sorry. "There are no new ones yet."

"Cool, I just ..."

Domejczuk looked into the oven through the glass.

"Looks like it's ready," he announced and pulled the plug from the socket. He opened the door. The hot air smelled like melted cheese, baked dough, paprika, ham and aromatic spices.

"Ouch, it's hot!" Konrad noticed regretting that they raised the temperature so much.

"That's why we rarely cook anything in such heat. Or we bake. But sometimes exceptions are made" he smiled as he passed the table.

Skalski also smiled. Sławek was an cool guy who, despite the fact that he lost his grandfather so recently and was left alone in this world, made sure that his guest felt well.

They got down to the food and went down on the recently popular zombie series. Sławek was not his big fan, but he knew the action and the characters. Conversation with him was casual and the meal passed quickly. According to Konrad, too soon, because it was nice to talk to someone about stupid things sometimes.

It's not like Konrad didn't have friends. He had. He had known some of them since forever, others a bit less, but Sławek was different, more mature and not as successful as Konrad's friends. Maybe it was because of his old grandfather's upbringing in the countryside, or maybe it was because of his deep sensitivity as an artist. Anyway, Sławek seemed to be smarter and more experienced than a boy of his age. It was as if his way of being was proving the theory of the old soul cited by Henry.

Domejczuk got up from the table to clear when someone knocked on the door. He didn't wait for the invitation, just opened it and stepped inside. Konrad saw a man some fifteen years older than them, whose face was burnt red by the sun. The newcomer was wearing a soiled sleeveless tee and a blue cap.

"Hello, Sławek, I have a job for you," he said, and noticing Skalski, he raised his hand in a gesture of welcome and slightly bowed his head. "I need to get the packages before it starts raining."

"Okay," he replied immediately. "So what, already?"

"Yap."

"Okay, I'll just change".

"I'll smoke outside."

The man left and Skalski looked at Sławek suspiciously.

"What's going on with these packages?"

"You have to take the pressed straw from the field, because if it gets wet, it will rot" Sławek explained, pulling out heavy military boots.

"You're not going to work in the fields in such heat, are you?"

"I have no choice," he said, putting on his boots and tying shoelaces. "Listen, I'll leave you at home. When you go somewhere, lock the house with a key and put it under the pot. Ok?"

"Wait, I'm coming with you!"

"Not for what. It's really hot."

"If you're going, so am I," Konrad said firmly.

"Do you have a hat or cap?"

"Hat? For what?"

Konrad looked at her for a moment. Then on Sławek, who was just putting on his worn baseball cap without any team marking. There was nothing to think about or to hesitate. He put on his and announced that he was ready.

Domejczuk looked at him critically from head to toe and he just stopped his eyes on his feet.

"Don't go into the field," he said. "Those aren't harvest boots. The stubble is sharp, and when we bring the rye, you'll find bones for them."

Skalski looked at Sławek's black ankle boots, which looked as if they were able to resist the barbed wire. They must have been hellishly heavy, but for some reason they were worth carrying. Domejczuk was probably going to help someone in the field for the first time.

"Okay, you're in charge," he agreed.

"Fine. Let's go!"